Page 44 of Hard to Handle

“No, I’m not.” He physically rejects the words as if taking two steps back from me is going to help do that.

“It’s okay to say it. There’s no shame in it.”

Another partial laugh. An opening of his mouth and then shutting it, but I see the sudden panic in his eyes. I hear it in the vibrato of his laugh.

“This is the last thing I need right now. Do you know that? Do you get the shitstorm I’m about to walk into tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Do you know—fuck,” he barks, his body tense, the can of worms I’ve opened expected but unknown. He walks a few feet away and laces his fingers on the back of his neck. “This is the last damn thing I need. Why couldn’t you leave well fucking enough alone, huh?”

“Hunter. I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I—”

“You’re goddamn right you don’t,” he thunders as he glares at me, probably oblivious to the couple on the other side of the parking lot. But I care and hate to know what they’re thinking as they glance our way several times. “Do you know how stupid that sounds?”

“How stupid what sounds?”

“That I no longer love hockey.”

His words stagger me. Burning out because of the relentless nature of the sport and trying to be your best versus hating that sport are two completely different things. But standing here, seeing him struggle, I know he can’t see the difference or separate himself from it . . . and it breaks my heart. There are tears in his eyes weighted with a mixture of shame and confusion and anger. It’s almost as if uttering those words—that he’s lost his love of hockey—is an admission that his identity has been stolen, and he’s not sure how to navigate his way back to it.

I struggle between offering him tough love or sympathy and know that it seems that neither is going to cut it. Taking a step toward him, I try to reason with hm.

I no longer love hockey.

“You don’t mean that—”

“You’re goddamn right I do,” he shouts, arms out to his sides. “But it’s so much more than that. So much more than I could ever explain.”

It’s that little break in his voice on the last word—and the defeat that eats up his posture—that nearly undoes me and makes me want to wrap my arms around him to take away the hurt that owns his eyes.

“Try me.” I take a step closer. “I’m here. I’m—”

“You’re what? You’re going to waltz in here with your positive attitude and magic wand and put everything back to fucking perfect again? No offense, Dekk, but it’s the last thing I want or need from you. The shit that’s broken can’t be fixed. The damage done can’t be reversed. All I can do is ride the fucking wave and make the best of it.”

“At least let me be there for you.” His laugh is hollow and raw and eats away at me. I get he’s a man not used to talking about feelings, but he needs to know. “Just know it’s a normal thing that most professional athletes experience at one time or another during their career. I mean, how can you not burn out? How can you play day after day and—”

“That’s enough!” His voice thunders through the parking lot. His words suggest he’s not listening, but the expression on his face—fear and uncertainty—shows me that he hears me. He knows I’m right. He’s just too proud and stubborn and masculine, too scared to admit defeat. Like many, he sees it as a sign of weakness.

As a sign of failure.

But failure of what is the question?

“Who do you think you are, playing shrink with me?”

“I’m the furthest thing from a shrink.” I take a step toward him. “We need to help you remember why you loved the game in the first place.”

“Who’s this we, crap?”

“You. I mean you. I just thought I could help—”

“So that’s what tonight was about, right? It wasn’t about just letting me go watch a game. It wasn’t about letting me get away from the guys for a bit and be me, and not just a captain. It was to show and make me see that I can love the game in a different way.” The protest dies on my tongue when I see the tears of frustration glistening in Hunter’s eyes. “Like I said, there are always strings attached. Always an ulterior motive. Always something someone wants from me and this time, no fucking surprise, it’s you—”

“Will you listen to yourself?” I shout.

“What? The alternative is listening to you?” His voice beats mine out.

“I don’t want to fight. All I want to do is help you however I can. Saying you’re burned out isn’t an admission of—”